


A Sign Blows over (Companion to the Terror Inside).

by Murmures1234



Series: Terror Inside Companion Pieces [1]
Category: Homeland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 17:09:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17729327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murmures1234/pseuds/Murmures1234
Summary: Companion Piece to the Terror Inside, in which a Sign blows over in a shop and Peter finally ends up in hospital.





	A Sign Blows over (Companion to the Terror Inside).

A series of one-shots showing the family history of Mathieson- Quinn depicted in “The Terror Inside.”  
Rob sees Peter Quinn for the first time since he begged him to come to Syria. Peter is in hospital following his admission to an inpatient Psychiatric Unit. Frannie is 5, nearly 6.  
\-----  
Rob walked through the hospital with purpose, like he was on a mission in some god-forsaken shit hole. But he wasn’t, he was at home. 

How the f*ck Carrie Mathieson had got hold of his phone number, he didn’t know. She wasn’t even in the fucking CIA anymore, she’d left, years ago, and dragged his OPPO with him. 

Rob had tried to hate her, those two years that he had trudged through the desert of Syria without the man who he had trained, without his comrade, without his friend. Rob had tried to hate him, for abandoning him. 

But he couldn’t hate her. He couldn’t hate him. 

Peter had been falling off the edge for as long as he could remember. A man one step from the edge of the cliff is not a man who should be in special ops.  
He’d hoped that getting out, getting away from it would give him the time and space to process the horrific things he’d seen, figure out how to compartmentalize, and move on. 

And it had worked, clearly. 

Rob had kept an eye on Peter from afar. Whenever he landed back, he swung by their house, watching from a distance. Hiding. Carrie had been in and out of hospital after Islamabad, struggling to get to grips with her now Lithium Resistant Bipolar disorder. Peter, he thought Peter had been coping. Wonderfully well apparently, every time he’d driven past, he’d seen Peter in the garden, smiling and laughing with a little girl with red hair. 

Brody’s kid. How the fuck he could raise Brody’s kid, he didn’t know. 

He thought Peter had a new life. He thought Peter didn’t need him anymore. But apparently not. 

Carrie had been in bits when he had phoned him. 

“Rob… Rob, are you there?” 

“Who the fuck is this?” He’d answered back, immediately. 

“Its Carrie, Carrie Mathieson. I’m Peter Quinn’s fiancé.” 

“I know who you are…” Rob started, sharply. _Fiancé, that was new._

“Listen… I’m sorry for phoning you like this. I know you’re in the country, I saw you in my street. But I need your help, Peter needs your help.” 

Rob had got in the car right away. 

“It’s broken him, you know. Your disappearing act. He had to leave to save himself, you understand that, don’t you? He wanted to come with you to Syria, so badly. So, so badly. He feels like he abandoned you,” Carrie had said on the phone. Rob had kept the line on as he drove to hospital. 

“He did.” 

“No. That’s where you’re wrong. You all abandoned him. He was hurting after Caracas, and no one cared. No one ever asked him how he felt. How he’d felt for years. You plucked him from a frying pan in Baltimore and you put him into the fire. He told me everything he remembered. You all make me sick, but he needs you now.” Carrie had started. 

“It wasn’t how you think Carrie,” Rob had started. 

“No, it was exactly how I think. You needed an asset, and a terrified 16 year old boy popped into your path. You forget what I used to do for a job.”

“Dar’s path.” 

“You’re equally as guilty to, you know that Rob. Otherwise you wouldn’t still be checking on him so regularly, all these years later.” 

Rob stopped at that. He thought he’d been discrete. 

“I thought he was coping.” 

“He was, magnificently. On the surface. He had to. I wasn’t coping at all. He had to pick up the slack, for Frannie’s sake. But his memories fucked Rob, and he thinks you hate him for not going to Syria.” 

“And you’re better and now he’s worse?” 

“Yes, and I need you here. He needs you here. You will come, won’t you.” 

“I’m on my way Carrie. I should never have asked him to come to Syria. I need to tell him that at least.” 

“Yes, you do.” 

It had taken him 40 minutes of speeding to get there. 

Carrie had put the phone down half way through, saying she needed to get back to Peter. 

She was sat on the seat in his room, watching the poor man sleep the events of the last 24 hours off. 

Peter had been out with them earlier that day. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a little celebration that Carrie had been out of hospital for 6 months. That things were getting better. A sign had blown over. A fucking sign. That’s all it had taken. 

In hindsight, Carrie said she should have realised things were not always as they seem. Since she’d been out of hospital, He’d been spending a lot of time outside. Throwing himself wildly into huge tasks requiring significant effort. He’d built Frannie a tree-house, chopping all the wood by hand until all his muscles hurt. Still, he hadn’t slept more than 3 or 4 hours each night. He was quick to anger, but he had been for as long as Carrie had known him. The whiskey bottles were slowly mounting up in the bin. 

But the sign had blown over, and it had been the straw that broke the Camel’s back. Less than a second later, Peter had pushed Frannie to the floor under the table. 

It had come so out the blue that it had taken Carrie a second to realise what had happened. It took her 20 minutes to convince Peter that he was in Virginia, not in Islamabad, and that he was safe. Eventually, he’d let a very confused Frannie up, before he’d sprinted out the shop, unable to deal with what had happened.  
Frannie hadn’t been massively upset by the incident under the table, but she was in bits when Peter didn’t come home that night. Carrie had left hundreds of phone messages, pleading for him to come home, telling him that if anyone knew what it was like to not trust her head it was her. 

Peter had come home that night, eventually, at 2 in the morning. But he wasn’t really with it. His shoulders were tense, he looked like a spring, coiled up. A bomb, ready to explode. Carrie had tried to calm him, ground him, the only way she knew how. She closed the space between them, and kissed him.  
But he threw her off, and she crashed on the floor, hard. She winced as she stood up, touching her hand to the back of her head and noticing that she’d got a small cut. 

Peter was still stood there, like a trapped deer. Eyes darting left and right. 

Carrie was nothing if not determined, she had tried again. 

“Peter, you’re safe.” She said, stepping towards him eyes out. 

“Get the fuck away from me, don’t touch me again. I’m fucking 16 years old you prick.” Was all he’d said in response. 

Fuck. This wasn’t hyper-awareness. This was full on flashback. 

“Peter, you’re at home with me, with Carrie. You’re not 16 years old any more Peter. You’re 33. You’re at home. The sofa we brought is just behind you. The carpet still smells like bleach from when Frannie vomited last week. Come-on Peter. It’s me.” 

Peter was blinking hard, as if trying to bring Carrie into focus. Frannie had come downstairs now, the shouting waking her up. She opened the door.  
It happened before Carrie could stop her, Frannie barrelled into Peter. For a second Carrie was terrified. 

“Daddy! You’re back!” She said. 

Reflexively, something in Peter’s memory kicked in, and he picked up the girl. 

All of a sudden, he was overwhelmed by the smell of Frannies’ shampoo, the colour of her hair. The feeling of her tiny hands around his neck. The love he had for this little girl. It was too much. 

“Carrie,” he gasped, “Help me.” Was all he’d been able to get out, before he sank back to the floor and burst into the most heartfelt sobs Carrie had ever seen. It was heart-breaking. Carrie wondered if he'd ever cried like this in his life. Little Frannie reached up with her tiny hands and brushed the tears away from his face. 

Carrie closed the gap, and put her arm around Peter. 

She’d not said anything, there was nothing to say. Nothing that could make it better. 

They’d stayed there on the floor for hours. Frannie had long since fallen asleep. 

The sun rose, a brilliant red. 

“My whole life, it’s like I only remember these flashes. A smell, a sound. Then I’m there. I relive it all. I thought I had it under control. Exercise, Alcohol. But I don't. I don't remember anything good Carrie. None of its good Carrie, none of it. Nothing is good until I came here.” 

“It happens with trauma Peter, you know that. Trauma does strange things to your memory. You’ll get it back.” 

“I’m not sure I want to.” 

“You need to Peter, you know that too. Knowing what happened, it’s the first step to processing it, to moving on.” 

“How can I move on It’s like… It’s like they said.. I have the mark of Cain upon me.” 

Carries heart broke at that. 

She knew one of Peter’s early foster families had been pretty zealotic in their Christianity. They’d been a big part in why Peter believed the terrible things about himself that he did. 

“Carrie… I want to die.” 

If it was possible, Carries heart broke even more. 

“I can’t move on until I know what happened to me, the only person who can tell me honestly won’t talk to me. He just waits out there Carrie, he thinks I’ve not spotted him, but I have! Even Frannie has! He won’t talk to me. I’d give anything for him just to talk to me again. _Anything_. He was my only friend for years. I know I should have gone with him to Syria, but I should have stayed here too. I don’t know what I could have done different Carrie. If I'd have gone I'd have lost you but by staying I lost him. He was my only friend. I'm not sorry I stayed Carrie, but I hate that he hates me. I _hate_ it. I’m just stuck Carrie. I betrayed them all.” He broke out in sobs again. 

“Peter…. Peter,” Carrie had said urgently. “Peter Quinn listen to me!” She ordered. She didn’t do it often. 

“You’ve looked after me so long, let me look after you now. Please. You can’t kill yourself Peter, I’ll never get over it and little Frannie definitely won’t.” 

Peter sniffled. 

“Let’s get you to hospital Peter, I know its not where you want to be right now. Trust me, I know its not where you want to be. It’s where you need to be. And I promise I’ll do what I can to get Rob there too. He can tell you all the bits you’ve forgotten. He might even be able to get your Care Files so you can start working out everything that’s happened to you. You can get through this Peter,” 

“And do what though? What do I do if I get through it? You don’t need me here anymore, you’re out of hospital, stable.” 

“Peter… I’ll always need you here. Always. So will she,” Carrie gestured to the sleeping child. 

“Come on, I’ll pack you a little bag. We’ll go to that really nice place by the lake.” 

The small PTSD focussed programme that had been where Carrie first started to get better after Islamabad. 

It was a testament to how fragged Peter was, that he followed Carrie numbly out the door. Numbly into the reception, numbly into the room where he’d been checked in and offered some Zopicone to help him sleep. Fluoxetine. Anti-depressant. “It pauses the pain,” the tiny, one-armed psychiatrist had said with a smile. “Trust me.” 

Little Frannie was still asleep in his arms as the drugs took effect. Sleeping in the middle of the day wasn’t great, but it was better than not sleeping. Carrie realised then that Peter hadn’t been sleeping well for a long time. She’d been so blind, they’d all been. 

When Rob turned up, he opened the door with practised years of black ops stealth, but little Frannie had woken up from her Dads arms. She was stealthily extricating himself from Peter and his drug induced stupor. Carrie had drifted off on the sofa. 

Little Frannie put a finger to her lip, miming at him to be quiet. 

“Daddy’s Sad,” she whispered. “He needs to sleep, then he won’t be sad.” 

“You must be Frannie, right?” Rob asked. 

“And you’re the man whose been watching our house.” Frannie said with a smile. “I told Mummy and Daddy that there was a strange man who looked like Santa watching the house, Daddy didn’t believe me but then he went out and he saw you. I got extra cake that night for being observint.” She said with a lisp, mispronouncing the word observant.  
Fuck. He hadn’t been made by a CIA agent of 15 years service, he’d been made by a 5 year old kid. Not only that, she though he looked like a fat, fictional character. Maybe it was time to get back in the gym, shave his beard. Fuck that, maybe it’s time to retire. 

“Why are you here?” 

“I’m a friend of your Dads, Fran.” 

“No you’re not.” Was all she’d said. 

“Yes, I am.” He’d responded confused. 

“No, you’re not. You had a big fight and then you weren’t friends and didn’t talk anymore. Friends talk to each other.” 

“Did Dad tell you that?” Rob said, unnerved by this five year olds interrogation. 

“No, I can tell. Daddy was sad when he saw you outside and you didn’t come in. I don’t like people that make Daddy sad. Daddy’s the best.” 

“I didn’t realise I’d made your Daddy sad Frannie, I’m sorry.” 

“Mummy always says sorry isn’t good enough. You can’t just say sorry, you have to show you’re sorry with your actions.” Frannie said, lisp getting more prominent as she became more angry. This girl might have some Brody blood in her, but she was all Mathieson, with the little hint of dark, commanding Quinn.  
Carrie and Peter stirred. 

Peter was in shock at the face he saw there. Rob. After all these years. He looked to Carrie, who had a smile on her face. 

“Come on Fran, let’s go to the canteen and leave these two boys to it.” 

Fran smiled brightly. “Can I have hot chocolate?” She asked, smiling brightly. 

“Of course Munchkin,” Carrie had said. Fran sprung off the bed, slipped on her dolly shoes and went to the door, still in her Tigger pyjama’s from the night before. At the door, she stopped. Looking thoughtful for a second. 

She turned around. 

“If you make Daddy sad again, I won’t be happy,” She said seriously to the man with a beard. “You shouldn’t dress up like Santa if you aren’t going to make people happy.” 

Carrie stifled a giggle. 

“Don’t laugh mum, it’s not funny!” Frannie said, exasperated. Didn’t mum realise how serious this was? 

“You need to show you’re sorry too. Mummy and Daddy never lie to me, and if they say sometimes saying sorry isn’t enough then they are right. Don’t make Daddy sad again!” She said, all seriousness, her red ringlets bobbing on her head as she told the huge man off fearlessly. 

“Come on munchkin,” Carrie said, stifling a giggle. 

Peter was giggling at the little girl now too, shaking his head. 

The door shut. 

The boys were silent for a second. 

“I’m sorry Rob, she can be pretty scary for a five year old.” 

“No, Peter. She's right. I’m sorry. Truly I am. I thought you were doing ok.”


End file.
